Lords of Crime
by Scriptare
Summary: Shikamaru, assassin and public enemy number one, saves a woman he's supposed to kill. His deed doesn't go unnoticed and he's thrust into a dark world of lies and deceit, trapped on both sides of the law. Can the woman he saved return the favour? AU


**Author's Notes:** I actually wrote this story well before I began _The Precipice of World's End: Harry Potter_ but unlike the Harry Potter fic, I have beta readers working on this one. Unfortunately, my beta readers have had a run of real life stuff and I don't blame them at all. Real life happens, this fic is just secondary to all that. Anyway, I've decided to post this up anyway to see what kind of reception it gets before I post up the refined stuff. Please be warned, this is raw.

**Genre:** Crime/Romance/Action  
**Pairings:** Shikamaru/Temari definitely. The others I'm not so sure about.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 1: A Shadow Cometh  
**

**

* * *

**

It was a bitterly cold night, the kind that nipped excruciatingly at exposed skin and chewed hungrily to the marrow. Most people would brush that off as hyperbole, just a random sputter of words phrased in a meagre attempt to appear provocative. Maybe the product of an unimaginative person who lived and died by clichés, but it was damn cold and eloquence was not a necessity, only translucent understanding. The air was still, but in a sense that water is still before the fated pebble strikes. Ultimately, it didn't matter at all. The brittle fingers of cold malice were more than satisfied with remaining suspended in the atmosphere, mercilessly clawing at anyone who dared to egress from their homes. Heavy wisps of thick white fog seeped out of the copper-dyed manholes in a desperate bid to escape the underground. A horrific smell pervaded the small back street, no doubt from the drunken masses who couldn't find a bathroom from their own front feet.

The shadowed figure wrinkled his nose in revulsion, a vile taste in his mouth. He stood uncomfortably in a poor excuse of a balcony above the darkened alley. It was more adequately comparable to an alcove that had been crudely plastered to the side of a desolate apartment building than a proper balcony. The crude and half-broken retractable ladder virtually nailed to the underside of the 'balcony' was proof of that. The railing, originally painted black, was chipped and bubbled and afflicted by rust and oxidation. The brick wall, fire engine red from its creation, was now stained with differing hues of lime and black, graffiti further decorating it. Why people still inhabited this dump was beyond his comprehension, but he didn't dwell on it. In less than five hours, he would be long gone, and back in his simple but warm apartment minus the atrocious stench. The sooner he could finish the job, the sooner he could leave this god forsaken asshole of Sunagakure. He was patient, and he was known for it, but this was hell.

He tugged out a somewhat flattened pack of cigarettes from his black dress jacket and fished for his gold-plated butane lighter. It was a Zippo knock off, the gold being as counterfeit as the brand name engraved into the side, but he didn't give a damn. Its sole purpose was to light his smokes and he wasn't going to impress anyone with an overpriced fire starter. With a flick, he quietly sparked the lighter to life, the gentle glow of its minute flame highlighting his face in orange. He had a permanently scowled countenance, small and cunning black eyes, a surprisingly diminutive nose and a trimmed goatee. The silhouette of his raven hair barely revealed the spiked ponytail he kept it in. He loathed letting his hair down, despite the naturally attractive way it fell in sharp bunches about his angular face, sculptured by a hand familiar with beauty. All-in-all, he was a darkly handsome Joe who didn't garner enough attention to be noticed by any one of significant importance. He liked to keep it that way. Simply put, his name was Shikamaru. Just Shikamaru.

He sucked on the butt, filling his lungs with the hardly filtered and therefore acrid ash and tar. He had long grown accustomed to the irritable sensation and he held it within him. It warmed him greatly but as the inflammation magnified, he blew it out languidly, and a small plume of grey death hung about him. It didn't quite kill the reek, but it dulled the edge. It also marginally fended off the crawling frost which had yet to peak with the young and moonless night. He held the cigarette between his index and middle fingers and away to the side, waiting for the haze to dissipate. Lighting was absent from the hell hole but he didn't want to risk it. He wasn't going to be charitable enough to give the people involved with the would-be meet a chance. His orders were straightforward: take everyone out. He didn't particularly enjoy the job, but he was too deep into the business. Abandoning it like an exposed pregnant woman who refused abortion was suicide and he valued his life still, as fucked up as it had become. Besides, he was good at this.

He absent-mindedly took another drag at the cigarette again, still studying the murky hall for signs of movement. He rubbed his right eye to squelch a bored tear and glanced at his watch, silver-plated in a similar fashion to his lighter. "11:57 PM." His boss told him the drop off would be at the stroke of midnight, no earlier, and no later. What it was and what it involved, he didn't know. He wasn't given specific details and rightly so, or so thought his boss. Who could trust a man who was nothing but a shadow? Not many if at all, but Shikamaru did have a small and dedicated group he had faith in, not just with his property, but with his very life. If there was any other constant besides change itself, it was that there was little in this world that could match the profound privacy entailed with such unwavering trust. It was only baby steps away from sacred ground and Shikamaru was not a religious man.

He stuck his hands in his black trouser pockets to keep them warm, lightly shifting his weight between the soles of his feet. He didn't want to go in for the kill and then have to pay for his careless mistakes with his life because he had numb fingers amusing as that might be for the targets. He arched his back to relieve cold-induced sores and pulled the watch up to his face once again. He silently chastised himself for his nagging impatience. "11:59 PM." He took one last draw from the cigarette, an almost cherishing moment, and flicked it carelessly over the edge in to the all swallowing abyss below, mentally counting down to midnight. A moment later, he heard two cars approach the open end, engines roaring in what seemed like an outpouring of dull anger, just as he reached zero. One was a seemingly new silver-green Land Rover, the other, a black Cadillac Escalade with conspicuous bumper damage. The head lights faintly lit the entrance to the gloomy corridor.

"Welcome to my hell, one-way only," he idly mused.

The vehicles were left running, exhaust briefly collecting before dispersing into the cold desert night. He heard the car doors open and slam shut with a thud that reverberated down the lane. Judging by the sound, he guessed around seven or eight people were involved. It would not be a problem. He melded into the wall, no more than a shadow among the many in the alley, and he quietly moved into position beneath the pitiful niche. The smell had intensified and he resisted the urge to gag. He shifted his dress jacket to the right for comfort's sake, and then stood as still as possible, not daring to flinch. Voices rang throughout the darkness and shattered the normally uncanny silence of the night watch. As long as this meet was kept in the obscure light, he would not be discovered until it was far too late. He already pitied the wretched posse.

A cacophony of shuffling feet drew closer to where he hid. Blessed with superior vision due to his shadow manipulation abilities, he tallied off eight bodies, two of them carrying large steel-enforced briefcases which shone like a pale sun in the car's headlights. They were nothing more than disposables.

Four of them were 'normals' or non-ninja trained personnel. They wielded automatic weapons, with transparent thirty round magazines loaded with five-five-six NATO standard rounds, standard iron sights, finger length silencers and based upon the bulkiness of their builds, they also wore tactical body armour. He was fleetingly intrigued by the amount of fire power they were capable of bringing. Although ninja-trained assassins and guards were as powerful, if not more so, than conventional firearms, the ability to purchase or own such weapons required authority and influence. Whoever supplied these men was a high roller, if not politically connected. Then again, considering the number of ninja in these forlorn days, long overlooking the ancient ways for the cheap and mass produced product, maybe it was the only option the unfortunate group had.

The other two not burdened by the briefcases or the weapons were clearly ninja-trained just on the basis of their gait. They walked with subtle ease only identifiable by other ninja, both an advantage and drawback. The larger one wore a simple but elegant striped navy blue suit matched with an immaculate sky blue shirt and pressed tie. The evidently male ninja showed no obvious signs of bearing a weapon, but Shikamaru knew that the ninja was one of the most dangerous of the eight. The overly-quoted figurative speech 'dressed to kill' loomed humourlessly within his conscious. What a waste of potential.

The last figure was moderately shorter and to his surprise, a woman. Her slender build was an instant give away, not to mention the voluptuous and evilly seductive curves. She also wore a suit minus the tie, black on white, proposing only an austere nature that had no time for games. This was serious business, and serious business like this demanded nothing but her undivided attention. Paradoxically, her blonde hair was done in an odd fashion: four pig tails that stuck out to opposite corners like some bizarre golden halo that still managed to retain some angelic quality. It was as if some divine being decided an angel fit for the new and hip age of anarchy, corruption and hypocrisy was in dire need. Regardless, it stuck out as rebellious and it grated against her otherwise stern look, a look that could send the devil himself packing. Maybe she was the devil. Nevertheless, it was laughable and admirable at the same time and ultimately, it was a marvellous illustration of her audacity. She was like a bloody light tower standing in the midst of a quagmire of thick black ink and crude oil that was composed of every sin known to man.

"What on this fucked earth is she?" echoed within Shikamaru's head.

The group finally stopped only a few feet away from where he stood. He derailed any thoughts that still lay with the walking female oxymoron and waited patiently for the right moment to strike, taking in the conversation that unfolded.

"How ya doin' Temari?" drawled the male ninja.

"I'm well," replied the female ninja identified as Temari. "How's the business?"

"Yeah, it's doin' good. Real good." The male ninja gestured at the briefcases. "You brought the inves'ments?"

"All three million," responded Temari. "And you brought the parcels?"

"O' course. Trust is number one in this business, ya know that Temari." The male ninja laughed heartily. His accent was mutilating the English language, but no one dared mention it. If languages could legally be considered as people, the male ninja would have been executed long ago for his murdering rampage.

"Just asking." Temari smiled back.

"Yeah, yeah," waved the male ninja in what he thought was carefree manner. He failed miserably and appeared annoyed more than anything. "And what a shithole we're meetin' at." The unidentified ninja swore. "Can't do business like in the old days no more. Fancy restaurant, nice wine, good food. I miss it."

"Poor baby..." thought Shikamaru, rolling his eyes in his own annoyance.

Still smiling, Temari shook her head. "Not since the police lockdown."

"No kiddin'. Fuckin' pigs. And fuck, what the hell is that?" The male ninja surveyed his surroundings, only skimming the unlit path. "Fuckin' smells like fish."

"Better get used to it fuck face, you'll be living here for a while," grinned Shikamaru.

Temari's smile finally faded. "It's what happens when you're in a part of town where there are more bars than washrooms." She wrinkled her nose in disgust as if it was an afterthought.

"Fuckin' drunks. You'd figure if they're drunk enough to piss on some walls, they're probably too fuckin' drunk to care about pissin' themselves." The visibly annoyed male ninja carefully stepped back and leaned against the brick wall, folding his arms.

Temari also folded her arms. "What do you plan on doing about it?" she asked feigning interest.

"She hates him," thought Shikamaru. He wanted to laugh at the male ninja's lack of perception. "And how long has he been in the business...?"

"Nothin'. After this, I'm gone. I won't be comin' back," remarked the male ninja.

Temari nodded in agreement. "What are you going to do with the money?"

"Not sure yet. I'll probably invest in the cartel north o' here. Do other shit while I'm plannin'. I got time," replied the male ninja matter-of-factly.

"No concrete plans huh?"

The male ninja waved indolently in the air. "Nothin' yet." It was a better attempt than his last, but it could still use some work.

"You come all the way out to Sunagakure, and you have no idea what you want to do with three million dollars." Amusement coloured Temari's face.

"Why not? Three million is still a lot. That in itself is worth it," said the male ninja smugly.

Shikamaru rolled his eyes again completely exasperated with the garbage the unknown ninja was spewing from the orifice he called a mouth.

There was a short pause before Temari turned her attention back to the briefcases. "The wedges, they are good right?" She emphasized 'are' as if it was the most important word in the world right at that moment.

"Temari, what I tell ya? Trust is-"

"-number one in this business," interrupted Temari. "I got it."

"Fast learner," smirked the male ninja.

"You need to be," pointed out Temari.

"O' course," said the male ninja. "But ya also need power. Otherwise, it's pointless. You'd fall."

"As will you."

"Wha-?"

"Oooh shit..." thought Shikamaru.

Temari lunged forward like a predator chasing her prey, astounding the four guards. She slammed her elbow down forcefully in to the male ninja's clavicle amplifying the strike with chakra. There was a sickening crunch and the impact jarring Temari. The male ninja suffered the blunt of the vicious hit and he fell with a grunt, his eyes bulging in a mixture of surprise and shock. His spotless shirt crimson stained, he slumped against the wall as if he had fallen asleep. The four guards were still stunned when she instinctively crouched to the ground, scanning the threats around her. She was already breathing heavily, and a twinge of pain shot up her arm. She gritted her teeth, a deadly glint in her eyes, and ignored the prickly sensation. Finally able to get her bearings, she leaped toward the four normals, kunai suddenly in hand. The normals shot wildly in her direction, the soft taps of suppressed weapon fire saturating the air. It was to no avail. The shots struck the briefcase handlers instead cutting their pathetic cries short. They were dead before they crumpled to the ground.

Temari was now upon them, like an avenging goddess of old. She swiped at the first guard with brutal precision and he let out an unintelligible gurgle, grabbing desperately at his torn throat. His life blood spilled out thickly like sap, and the gun lay discarded and forgotten on the ground. The second guard only just registering her new position moved erratically in panic only to have the kunai puncture his throat as well. He twitched violently and dropped to the ground in three jerking movements. Blood sprayed the vicinity in a fine mist like some morbid spray paint. The body armour was useless in this situation. The blood gods, if they existed, must have been sated.

Fear grappled the remaining guards. It laughed at them and beckoned them seductively closer to sweet oblivion. Unable to control their trembling selves, they ran for their lives, blindly firing back in to the alley. They would not fall to the devil, but retreat was futile. Temari quickly and methodically retrieved two shuriken from her ankle holster and threw them at the retreating backs of the guards. Her aim true, the shuriken perforated their necks. Both guards collapsed abruptly, guns still discharging. As the last shot sliced the air, an eerie silence fell upon the corridor. Shells littered the icy earth and the barrels of the firearms still smouldered. With the area clear, Temari reached for the two briefcases, but then sensed something was amiss. The male ninja's body was absent, and she sensed movement behind her. She tried to dodge the incoming threat, but reacted too sluggishly.

"Temari, ya bitch!" Strong arms grabbed her by the throat and began strangling her heartlessly. The male ninja was in searing pain. His collarbone was likely shattered by her earlier impact. However, he had enough energy and willpower to kill her through barbarically ruthless, if unrefined, means. "You goin' to regret fuckin' with me!" His eyes were that of a maniacal rage. His naive belief of trust was utterly broken.

Her vision blurred and her world spun as her lungs gasped for the air that would not come. She smashed her occipital bone into the assailant's face but his grip did not falter despite the now broken nose. Blood trickled down the bridge of the male ninja's nose as he growled in anger. He was much heavier than she was and it was proving impossible to throw him off. Gripping the kunai tightly, she jammed it into his leg in hopes of hitting a major artery, inciting him to howl fiercely. Tears of anger and pain had sprung up in his eyes, but he refused to let go of his death grip. His breath came unevenly, and despite fighting for her life, she could smell alcohol. She groaned inwardly from the ridiculous irony.

In desperation, she bent her legs like a coil and vehemently kicked backwards into the grimy wall, crushing the male ninja. His hold weakened momentarily, but he immediately resumed applying even greater pressure upon her neck. She tried again, each time loosening the attacking ninja's grasp, but as her strength flagged, she was unable to take the advantage. Just as black dots enveloped her vision, she heard a voice. It was a deep baritone with a hint of deliberate sarcasm, but perfect enunciation.

"That's not how you should treat woman, now is it?"

"What the fuc..." It was all the male ninja could say. A thin black tendril, with the appearance of a shadow, impaled him through his forehead, burrowing through him faster than he could blink. The pressure of the blow burst the back of his head open, brain matter, mucous and blood spraying the already filth-stained walls. It was practically the same effect as a pistol induced blowback. His eyes were still wide in astonishment as he slumped to the ground for the last time. A pool of his life essence painted the floor and his limbs were bent at unnatural angles.

Temari fell to her knees and hands, left at the mercy of the new intruder, and gasped heavily for air. It cleared her mind and her eye sight immediately, but a low throbbing pain was already creeping into her brain, the chill in the air worsening the condition. Her eyes were unable to focus and she massaged her temple with the tips of her fingers. She wanted to just fall and sleep there in resignation, in the piss-soaked alley, but another pair of strong, but gentle arms held her.

Unlike the guardian angels of legend that emanated a calming and pure white light, he absorbed the radiated light, leaving behind nothing but shadows. Still, Shikamaru couldn't watch her die or fall into a whirlpool of acquiescent defeat. He wasn't quite sure why.

"Are you all right?" It was that velvet smooth voice again, and it was filled with genuine concern. Her legs gave out, and she fell dumbly into his arms, gazing at his face. A shadow veiled it, despite the dim glow from the car head lights. She wanted to nod her head, but the pain was unbearable. Her throat was unexpectedly parched, and it felt cracked like the baked earth of the very desert that encompassed the city.

"I-I'm fine," she managed to stammer out. The shadowed man lifted her cautiously to her feet. She was unsteady, blood surging back into her head. Her legs began to collapse upon themselves again and she seized the man tightly, blindly groping for support. She fought the need to retch with bile and acid lapping up her stomach. She cursed her weakness, but she could also appreciate her current situation and she squelched her pride.

"I'll carry you to my car." Unable to protest, he picked her up, arms under her knees and back in a bridal position, and he carried her with ease down half a block. She didn't know who the man was, or why he offered to help her, but she let him anyway. She desired his identity, but his face was nothing more than an indistinct silhouette against the unpleasant and forbidding night. She gazed numbly at the few weak stars over head, questions threatening to overwhelm her. Her head ached in rhythm with his footsteps, despite their tentative nature.

They reached his car, a white Audi R8, and he re-positioned himself awkwardly as he opened the passenger side door with one hand. With all the tenderness of a lover, he eased her into the passenger seat, fine black leather, and closed the door behind her with a firm thump. She let her body collapse into the form fitting seat, and closed her eyes. Away from the cold and smell, gradually, the crippling ache was receding. Her exhaustion suddenly swept over her like an incoming ocean tide and she grew drowsy and she passed the threshold of sleep. Her last memory before slumber took her was that of the back of the man who had saved her.

Shikamaru returned to the grisly scene and noticed a new stink permeated the air. The indecent cocktail of piss and blood was mind numbing, but he overlooked it with difficulty. He knew the cops would eventually arrive. Some unfortunate homeless soul would discover the carnage, and report it dutifully, shaken by what he sees. His calculating mind revealed there wasn't much he could do, but at the very least, he needed to cover his tracks. He left the baggage carriers untouched, their bodies riddled with the normals ammunition. There would be little the police could deduce from that he concluded. He walked briskly toward the guards, and realized there was nothing he could do here as well. The ninja inflicted wounds were obvious, but fortunately for him and the mysterious woman, they were ambiguous. No one could confidently link them to any single ninja. He jerked out two small shuriken still lodged in the necks of the two guards who lay closest to the entrance and deposited them in a transparent plastic bag.

He turned his attention to the unknown male ninja and carefully searched his pockets. It was a fruitless endeavour, turning up only a golden fountain pen, various kunai, unused scrolls, and a small red book. He pocketed the book for perusal for a later time at his own convenience and then examined the wound on the man's head, courtesy of his killing blow. It certainly appeared as if a pistol round had penetrated the man's skull, but without traces of bullet fragments, whether in his skull or in the alley, or gun powder residue, any notion of small arms fire inflicting this wound would be quickly ruled out. He would have to confuse the Suna forensics teams.

He dragged John Doe's body to the Land Rover, careful not to incriminate himself further. Opening the rear door cleanly, he dumped the corpse in to the spacious beige carpet-lined trunk. He swiftly tied a tag etched with strange scripture to the dead man's tie and yanked out the kunai embedded in the man's groin, blood still dribbling weakly from the now gaping wound. The tag was already twisting and curling from the heat emitted from the scripture and soon, a small fire that could burn from any material as fuel, spread throughout the male ninja's body. With a grunt, he closed the rear door securely, adding the bloodied kunai along with the other evidence to the plastic bag. He studied the scene again briefly, and smirked in satisfaction. He would be in the clear once again.

Shikamaru walked back to the car with a briefcase in each hand, unsure what to do with the unforeseen guest, if one could call the woman that. What she was, what she did, and what she was a part of were a mystery to him, and he would have to be on his guard lest he wake to the bite of a kunai precariously on his neck. He'd take his chances though. Leaving her to the night and its predators wasn't an appealing option either and for that matter, the police. He sighed audibly and decided to let things take their course. Reaching the car, he shoved the briefcases into the trunk, slid into the driver's seat, and exhaled in what seemed to be preparation. He turned to the woman, a million questions on the tip of his tongue, and then clenched his teeth to block the flow. She was asleep and genuinely so based on her breathing patterns, heart rate and eye movement. He sighed again, the second in as many minutes and started his car to a soothing hum. He would 'interrogate' her later at his apartment.

He pulled the gear stick in to drive and slowly made his way out of the small allocated parking slot on the side street. He was too lazy to mess with a manual transmission and opted for an automatic when he bought the car. He wasn't ashamed of it and he gladly paid the premium.

He glanced at the rear-view mirror as he drove on to the main street. The unnatural fire from the tag he had attached to the male ninja's tie already engulfed the Land Rover in a hungry fire storm brighter than the dismal stars above. When the police arrived, they would only have ashes to work with. He grinned, driving away into the night, his white Audi like a ghost. Another night on the job, another night he stayed alive, and no one would be the wiser.


End file.
